I enjoy organising. That is to say, I enjoy organising things – ordering collections, music, books, folders.
Or organising design folders so anyone can find what they are looking for without directions.
Or organising the fridge so a minimum amount of space can accommodate the maximum amount of food. Although this amazing talent has yet to find me employment, it’s comes in handy when the ex shouts at me for buying too much food, in case it wont fit in the fridge. (It always fits in the fridge.)
Organising people is somewhat harder. People management is a highly valuable and marketable skill. The ex seems to have this. I’ve never met anyone so capable of bossing people around.
Regardless, I have made it my agenda in life to hone, practice and perfect entirely unmarketable skills. Like lining up all my coloured felt pens in specific gradient order. Or organising an iTunes library.
So taking all the above into account, I’m planning a New years eve party in the most disorganized, half-assed way. In fact I think this might be my first official ‘adult’ (snort) party.
I tell my folks a week before I leave London, maybe I’ll have a new years party. I neglect to give them the amount of people or confirm anything. Riddhi is equally vague. Riddhi has all the jings in her pocket. So she’s the one bringing the peoples to the mountain.
I convince my parents, who are a little old school, that we make it a BYOB. I can’t be organising no booze, that’s a stress level too far. So I thought it would be a laid back casual affair, however I had underestimated my mothers party-throwing ability.
I woke up the morning of the 31st to find lights being put up on the trees by a small team of burly men, and small sets of tables, benches and chairs on the lawn. We have garden speakers disguised as giant rocks, which my father and I had already set up.
My mother, who doesn’t do things by halves, insists on flowers and candles. Flowers must go around all the candles on each table. I throw some outdoor cushions on the chairs.
My mother shrieks,
“No no no no! Not those cushions NO! Just listen to me and put them back!”
“But why?? OK OK! Fine fine”
The ‘party’ cushions are now revealed. Nice and crisp, green and white stripes. So I chuck the party cushions on the chairs. More shrieks. Don’t I know cushions can’t be diagonal?? And this one goes here and this one here! I should know this! I’m an artist.
My father then says in mock horror
“Don’t you know how the cushions go? Shame on you”
She then wants me to insert napkins in-between the paper plates but I have to draw the line. That’s one step too far. I convince her not to create double work and just leave them on the side in their own stacks. People can help themselves. My mother gets very hyper and hysterical before a party. She needs to be reined in.
I scrub the marble side tables. My father complains I haven’t dusted. I tell him I already dusted. He insists on dusting again.
Then I tell my mother that the mali never even cleaned the tables. She is irate. He is totally useless. This is the last time and he is definitely fired (He’s been fired now 9 times.) Then I told her how he asked me why I didn’t get him chocolates.
My mother is outraged;
“He’s not getting any chocolates! I fired him!”
Eventually we’re good to go.
We worry about the food and mixers and munchies and as usual over-estimate everything. I did very little else aside from sending out a vague Facebook invite and cutting carrot sticks while watching a movie. (Easy A – Teen rom-com, with a cast of over 20’s, about a girl who pretends to lose her virginity. I recommend if that genre appeals to you)
We initially thought maybe it’ll just be 5 or 6 people chilling in my garden. If we were lucky a few more. Eventually 28 or so people turned up and it was great. I shipped my folks off to their oldie party upstairs. My Dad tried to crash our party twice, encouraged by Ratna, but I indelicately made him leave.
Ratna, who like my mother, knows how to host and organise things helped me kick-start the serving of munchies. Her friends brought a whole host of food and extra ice. In fact the guests not only BYOB-ed, they even made food. Riddhi made humus for my painstakingly cut carrot sticks.
J. actually made 2 trays of profiteroles from scratch. From scratch!! They were a massive hit. There were fights over the last profiteroles, a race to the kitchen. Elbows in the face. It got ugly, but they were all gone at last. Someone later coined the term ‘amazing ice-cream burgers’. We had to tell him it was whipped cream.
I would have liked at least one PhD at my party, unfortunately he went off for some conference slash PTA meeting in Bangalore (seriously). He saw the lights on the trees and asked me why my mothers opted for “these Zionist lights” (they were 6 sided stars).
Party finally ended at 6 am. I wish there was drama and gossip to report, but alas, it was a very relaxed and gossip free party which is perhaps nice for the host.
The only thing I could possibly report is that D. took a 3 hour nap in my brother’s room, in the middle of the party.
and not alone either….
But that’s hardly gossip.
It was only with the 3 cats.